Boys Life

I waited outside our meet up point, her friend’s apartment a few blocks south of the Meatpacking District. I pushed myself back in time, borrowing a pose, ragged sexuality, form the neighborhood’s past. Leaning, smoking, doing my best vacant hustler. When Veronica walked out to meet me I was against a mailbox, displaying this meticulous apathy. Greetings are exchanged and we walk to eat an early dinner. The restaurant was playing the soundtrack of my junior high: New Order, Echo, The Cure. I drew strength from the music’s familiarity, while she seemed oblivious to my classics. The songs seemed a reward for a last payment to creditors. My debts from earlier in the week negotiated and forgotten, a full repossession of dignity. I was given a clean slate on a perfect August evening. The sky was bright blue, sunny still. It might have been five or six at the latest, the last of lunch passing the beginning of dinner. I watched a pack of young queers heading towards the pier, and I considered telling her about being in a theater group as a teenager. There was one kid in the group, his name escapes me now, of a forgettable height, skinny and dark. He was HIV positive from being raped in a foster home. This kid was holding about the shortest end of the stick one can grasp. I remember he was so in love with me and totally unapologetic about it. At Christmas he gave me a coffee mug with my name and a generic personality description on it:

‘You’re very self-confident, 
Totally Secure; 
You’ve got inner strength 
And the will to endure. 
Your admirers think  
You’ve got “macho appeal,” 
But you’re also sensitive 
To how others feel. 
You’ll always be able, 
Both mighty and great, 
For success and strength 
Are within your fate.

I still have the mug. Its bottom permanently stained from years of doubling as ashtray. I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of it. It’s not because of some love for him, I can’t even remember his name. But I remember the way he would laugh and smile and look at me. Occasionally I would be uncomfortable but it was always ok. The mug was important to him and for whatever reason I’ve always made sure to take care of it. Sometimes when I need to be reminded of how fucking lucky I am, I’ll contemplate the mug. Other times it’s an off-green ashtray, stained and weary. Whenever I see gay kids, I think of him and his refusal of fate. If these kids can smile and laugh and play fight on Christopher Street I can do anything. I tell Veronica about the theater group but I keep it surface. I tell her how years ago I knew I could have been an actor but it never held any appeal. It’s one of my jokes, that I claim to half believe. The thing is I don’t half believe it, I’ve fully believed it for as long as I can remember. If I had wanted to act, sky would have been the limit. I knew it, in an almost shamanic way. I don’t go into too much detail about my self knowledge, just enough to sound cocky. Maybe slightly delusional too, but in that way that is never second guessed. I remember a girl I loved once said she was going to be President. She was in the theater group too and she delivered her ludicrous predictions in such a matter of fact way, that at seventeen I never doubted their plausibility. 

After dinner we walk through the West Village, sticking to the beautiful blocks. There is still sunlight, and everything is perfect. Talking, flirting, getting to know each other. I’m still enthralled with her potential but I’m calmer now, not fumbling with the moment, rather, moving in it. We stop on a stoop on Waverly Place, around the corner from where it meets Perry Street. I think about us having one of these places someday. Her movies will make it possible and I will be content to be a stay home creative type, tending to children and brownstone. I swing back to the reality at hand, pull her close and we kiss. There is no clamor for symmetry, no crashing of teeth or over enthusiastic prodding. It is simply a first kiss.  

After a few moments of embrace I sit back down on the stoop. I look up at her generic black dress and wonder where this would go. How far into the night we would make it, six to six? All the way to sweaty and tired? First kiss to first sleep? From my seat I watch Veronica lean slightly down and put her right hand up her skirt. I see the silk like fabric move between her legs and realize she’s touching the inside of her thigh. A moment later wet fingers are pressing into mine. It’s August after all, and the entire city is sticky. Why shouldn’t we revel in our excitement, in finding someone, share it with each other. A little secret beneath the humidity. 

“Is that…?” 

“Yes…” 

I stand up and we kiss again. And then we start talking. 

“What do you want to do?” 

“I want to keep hanging out with you, I don’t care what we do.”  

“Well I made plans with that dude, but I will cancel on him and we can do something.” 

Why the fuck is she telling me this. Why do I have to hear that she put me on the early half of her date card. Didn’t I hear enough about the magazine editor that is chasing her on the night we met. I side step this emotional pitfall and stay focused. I am younger and clearly cooler than whoever is getting cancelled on and I’m getting the second half of the card now too. Fuck this guy, stay focused, be yourself. We’ll make it to the end of this night, life raft, sex, rescue, anything, whatever. She cancels on him via text and we move off the stoop, into the evening.